


A Moment of Weakness

by Lue4028



Series: Rites of Passage [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 08:51:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3563582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lue4028/pseuds/Lue4028
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, bereft after his wife's death, knows he's not good for Sherlock, and finally musters up the courage to give him an out, fully expecting him to take it. [Parentlock]</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Moment of Weakness

“Sherlock…”

 

Sherlock knows what that tone of voice means. It means it’s time for a  _talk_. The last time John and Sherlock had a  _talk_ , Sherlock lost his basic human rights and became a non- consensual parent.

The last time John and Sherlock had a  _talk_ was the last time Sherlock set foot on a crime scene in the light of day, the last time Sherlock basked in the glory of his mind palace without infant screams shattering its megalithic walls, the last time Sherlock was anything more than just a rotting mess of neurons fulfilling the banal chores of a housewife, the last time Sherlock was Sherlock at all.

 

“Sherlock, I think, I think we should reconsider how we’re going about this,” John is saying, running a hand through his cropped, dark blond hair, “I don’t think that we’re--” He looks up to Sherlock, who is poised silently in his chair, looking straight ahead at the wall.

 

“No,” he decides gravely, eyes side-cast again, “I  _know_  that  _I’m_  not good for you.” Sherlock’s reflective eyes redirect intently to his flatmate seated across from him on the leather settee. John is leaning forward with his elbows resting on his Uniqlo jeans, hands open and extended, gesticulating as he arranges his thoughts. “If you stay here I know I will take it out on you, I will drag you down with me and I will make you miserable. You will never hear me say that I'm sorry, or grateful, and she will most definitely drive you up the wall.”

“You deserve better than this, and I just, I don't want you to be unhappy so," John swallows, and proceeds, "I said you were free to leave before, but now I mean it.”

Sherlock looks at him with a set of gaping blue eyes as John rises from his seat, jaw going slack as John says, “I think that you should leave. I want you to leave."

 

Sherlock knows he should be racing out the door right now, he knows this with every crawling fibre of his being, but every time he so much as thinks of doing that, the doorknob inconveniently stops working.

 

“Go ahead. Take it. It’s a get out of jail free card,” John urges him with a shrug, trying to resolve any extraneous feelings of obligation, “Never look back.”

 

Sherlock suddenly seems remarkably disinterested in John’s proposal, eyes shifting down, relegating to the floor in distaste. John is puzzled by the sudden withdrawal, but as his eyes run over his flatmate, the slight downturned frown on that noble face, the disengaged aversion of his eyes, the sea-green, lacklustre irises thrown dejected upon the burgundy expanse carpet, he recognizes the defeated expression as one he’s seen on rare occasion, the one he’s dubbed as _check-mate_.

 

 

"I can't leave John," Sherlock responds dully in response to John's unnerving display of blatancy. He swallows and looks down at his laces. John respectfully waits for him to finish, though Sherlock wishes he wouldn’t.

John places his hand on the curved edge of the settee, returning to his seat. “Why?” he asks innocently.

_Consequences. Consequences._

 

"You'll break." 

 

John hears that and immediately looks peeved. He breathes an exhale, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a moment.

“I’m sorry-“

“No its-” John jumps in and waves him off distractedly without looking up.

“I didn’t want to say it,” Sherlock disclaims.

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” John assures him, preoccupied, too spread thin to put much effort into making it sound convincing and unhurried.

Sherlock restlessly watches him like that, being insufferable, and can’t stand the thought that it’s his fault. He rakes a hand through his hair, then stands up hastily. He places a hand on the settee, and bends foot beneath him, taking a seat beside his distracted companion.

“Tea?” he asks, leaning on his hand, absently outstretched toward the blonde.

John doesn’t look up, eyes closed. “No.”

“Case then?” Sherlock asks, stomach flipping anxiously.

“No. It- what I want--”  _is my wife back_. John clenches his fist, turns his neck away from his hand with reserved tension. “You can’t give me.”

“Consolation sex?”

That seems to be the right answer, because John chuckles irrepressibly and looks up with a smile, eyes alight with green-grey mirth. Sherlock stares humourlessly at that ephemeral warmth, chronically dampened with pain. Then John’s smile falls away into a line of open mouth.

“You’re serious.”

Of course Sherlock is serious. Why wouldn’t he be serious?

John releases a breath, an amused look playing on his features. Sherlock sits with one foot curled beneath him, spine erect, looking rather like a loyal dog waiting at the foot of your bed. Cracking a smile, John looks at Sherlock fondly, reaching out and gently clutching a handful of curls. His fingers brush against the scalp above his ear, touching his dark, raven hair, and Sherlock watches him motionlessly, eyes liquid silver.

As a spur-of-the moment whim manufactured by his emotionally-unstable brain, John casually leans forward and gives him a thank-you kiss, befitting the theme of the conversation. Dark lashes fall closed in the second their mouths meet, but open instantly after, the detective's expression remaining immaculately still, collected, neutral.

The gesture is all in good fun, perfectly harmless, but when John retracts a final few inches, his mind freezes. Then his eyes widen with the pain of a sudden and invisible stab wound, and out of no-where, water runs from his eyes, spilling out in glowing streams of refracted light.

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow and eyes widen on him in incomprehension.

“No John don’t--“ Sherlock stammers, breath catching with rising concern.

In the midst of the excruciating pain that’s overcome him, John doesn’t understand what happened either, but then he does, he knows it was an self-inflicted wound.

_Consequences. Consequences._

Sherlock grips the side of the blonde’s head. "John. Please don’t," he pleads, ineffectively. He tries pressing a kiss back, but John clenches his teeth, choking a sob.

Feeling at a loss, Sherlock darts into him, presses his skull against his and arrests him in a hug. Encircling the barrel of his chest with his arms, he dives forward onto the sofa, fabric rustling against fabric rustling against leather. John falls back and Sherlock’s face melds into the crook of the soldier’s detergent-scented neck, his slacks and John’s trousers a tangle.

"John," he chokes, voice paralleling the grief of his friend, fingers in traction against the back of his shirt. Sherlock presses his forehead against him, nudges, nuzzles, cuddles him, tries anything he can to curb the pain with tenderness and urgency of contact. John clutches his pounding head, the heel of his palm pressing into his eye socket, and sobs uncontrollably, mouth clenched closed, the depths chest reverberating with each choke of pain.

After seeing that the contact is only making it worse, Sherlock retracts, locking his elbows, and looks down at his friend helplessly, his ebony fringe obscuring his grief-stricken gaze. Then Sherlock realizes the problem. The hazarded guesses, the kisses, the embraces weren't harmless; while a cursory and marginal show of innocent affection, they carried an ulterior significance, reminded him how unmarried he really is. 

**Author's Note:**

> amBiGuOuS  
> It came across more platonic in my mind.


End file.
